


An Unusual Name

by Lyn_Laine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Female Harry, Female Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-22 21:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12491432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyn_Laine/pseuds/Lyn_Laine
Summary: Vernon managed to convince himself not to talk to anyone about what he sees that very first day after the Halloween attack in 1981.  He managed to convince himself Harry was a perfectly common name.What if the Potter child had been a girl named Iolanthe?  What if Vernon hadn't managed to convince himself not to talk to anyone that first day?  Vernon approaches the witches and wizards by the bakery and everything changes.Fem Harry.  Teenage dating but no final pairing set out beforehand.  A study in ripple effects.Warning: author tends to update so frequently that stats are not always indicative.





	1. Point of Divergence

As Vernon walked back out of the baker’s, clutching a large donut in a bag, he caught a few words of what the cloaked people were saying.

“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard -”

“Yes, their daughter, Iolanthe Euphemia -”

Vernon stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers, wondering whether or not to say something to them. Finally, he decided there was nothing else for it. There was no way there was another Iolanthe Euphemia Potter walking around, and he would never mistake such an odd name for anything else.

He screwed up his nerve and walked over to the cloaked people. “Excuse me - the Potters I think you’re talking about - I’m related to them.”

They stopped whispering and looked at him cautiously.

“The -” He looked around. “The witch and wizard?” he whispered.

Their eyes widened. “You’re one of their Muggle relatives,” a cloaked witch breathed in realization.

“Muggle - what does that mean?” Vernon asked, struggling to comprehend.

“It means non magical,” another witch supplied sympathetically.

“Yes - has - has something happened to them?” He wanted to know if it was about to get out that he was related to these degenerates.

Their looks suddenly became pitying. “You don’t know,” the first witch realized. “You poor thing.”

“They were murdered,” said the second witch hesitantly, “trying to protect - well, people like you.”

“... People like me?” Vernon wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“The wizarding world separated from Muggles over the witch hunts long ago. It was silly, as we were born this way and are not at all some Satanic cult. But that’s what happened. And there are still wizards and witches who believe all Muggles should be wiped from the face of the planet because of it. They have never let go of the past.

“But the Potters - they were one of the good ones. When a Blood War broke out, they fought on the side of the Light, protecting Muggles and Muggleborns. They were soldiers - a Pureblood and a Muggleborn who bravely got married. And they were just murdered, I’m afraid.”

And Vernon got the full story - of the terrifying Voldemort, and how the Potters had died and their daughter Iolanthe had somehow deflected an unblockable Killing Curse destroying Voldemort.

Vernon tried to tell himself that the Potters deserved what they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types. But somehow, it fell flat and sour in his mouth. How had he not known about this? That his in laws had been soldiers risking their lives and dying for people like him? That they now had an orphan daughter? That their power wasn’t Satanic at all, but was inborn?

He realized Petunia had never really told him anything important about the wizarding world. Just that it was terrible. He’d guessed the rest himself.

“Can you - can you tell me about your world? Please?” For once, he swallowed down his pride. “Where does magic come from?”

“In Muggle terms,” said the old man in the emerald green cloak helpfully, “it’s a biologically inborn genetic ability that makes humans able to manipulate matter. I’m a Muggleborn myself, so I can explain it better than most. Electricity shorts out around strong magic, which is part of why our world might seem… different, to you.”

“How is your world structured?” Vernon asked next. And here he’d hit the motherlode.

He learned that the wizarding world had a complex and modern government system. They had their own countries. They had career paths, an education system, banks, small businesses, Apothecaries, Healers, and even a kind of scientific research called magical theory. They had marriages and children, they usually wore Muggle clothes though robes were their traditional wear, and they were unusually accepting of marginalized groups because of their own history being prejudiced against. They had policemen and soldiers called Aurors, violent criminals called Dark wizards, poverty and wealth, and an entire fighting force. They had methods of travel and communication, pets.

They were, Vernon realized, thunderstruck - not so different from him.

It was a strange shift, because suddenly wizards and witches weren’t just weirdos anymore. They were their own society who had separated and were different for damn good reasons. Moreover, the Potters had been people who were protecting those like him, and apparently there were many others among their number.

However he personally felt about James Potter, the man had died fighting for his cause. Lily Potter might not have been so awful after all.

And there was a terrible sense of mourning because Vernon had realized this too late.

“How’s my niece’s name pronounced?” he asked, now determined to remember and find out what had happened to her. 

“Yo-Lahn-Thee. You-Feem-Ee-Ah. Iolanthe Euphemia,” said the witch crisply.

“You have your own names like you have your own traditional robes style dress,” Vernon guessed.

“We’re not Wiccan, but amongst other things we’re descended from Celts and Druids and nature is very important to us,” said the old wizard. “Of course, nowadays all modern religions are welcome. The only exception, ironically, is Wiccans - not because they’re not magicians, but because they are. Their magic and our magic, therefore, is incompatible.”

They weren’t weird. They were actually quite rational.

Vernon had a lot of thinking to do.

“... Thank you,” he said, his brow furrowed. “Thank you very much.”

He hurried back up to his office, told his secretary with absent trouble not to disturb him, and closed his office door. Then he called his sister on the phone. She picked up after the second ring. 

“Yes?” Marge asked. “Marge Dursley speaking.”

“Marge,” said Vernon. “It's your brother. I need to talk to you about something.”

And he told her everything - everything he had always hidden, the whole thing - including what he had heard this afternoon.

Marge was indignant, even enraged. “Those people sound wonderful! I’m friends with a Colonel and those people died in a war for the good! And Petunia has been telling awful lies about them all this time?”

“Yes, that’s the only thing I can guess,” Vernon said, troubled. “And I don’t know why.”

“I’m coming there by train tomorrow,” said Marge firmly. “No doubt about it. We have to fix this, and help that poor orphan girl, and we have to do it now.”

“... Meanwhile.” Vernon steeled himself. “I’ll talk to Petunia.”

-

The fight back at home did not go well.

“You lied to me about the Potters!” Vernon barked in the kitchen that night.

“I did _not_ lie!”

“Well you sure as hell didn’t tell the truth!”

“That woman deserved what she got!”

“That woman was your sister, and she died protecting people like _you_! I expected you to be more openly upset! Do you really feel _nothing_?”

“How exactly do you want me to feel?!” Petunia suddenly shrieked, whirling around. “Beautiful Lily with her enchanting green eyes and her lovely red hair and her brilliance and her power was born with everything that I wasn’t! Our parents adored her, Vernon! _Adored_ her! Because she was nothing like the rest of us!

“And now she’s dead in a horribly brave way, and I’ve lost my sister, and she outshone me right to the end! How do you want me to feel?”

Petunia took deep breaths, shoulders heaving, tears in her eyes as she stared, raw and vulnerable, at Vernon.

“I wanted to hate her world,” she admitted, her voice trembling, “because I couldn’t be a part of it. So I did. And I put that on you. And -” She waved a hand, still raw. “I’m _sorry._ I _suppose._

“Do you know, I wanted a daughter? I spoil Dudley at home while you’re not here and give him everything he wants and I know it. Because I’m determined to show him he’s enough. Even though he’s not the daughter Lily had instead of me - and even though he’s not magic - I want him to be _enough.”_

She began sobbing.

“... You were jealous,” Vernon realized, thunderstruck.

There was a long silence as Petunia sobbed in the kitchen.

Vernon eventually approached Petunia and awkwardly put his arm around her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But that’s not a good excuse to ruin any child. And you know it. I know it now, too, I suppose. Dudley deserves better.

“And maybe you could have your daughter. Maybe we could ask to take in Iolanthe.”

Petunia looked up suddenly, gasping.

“You always did like children with unique names, and little girls.” Vernon smiled hesitantly. “You could make sure Dudley never feels upstaged - the way it seems your parents never did for you. They could both be equal, and treated well. Neither of them has to be treated badly for being what they are. Neither of them deserves that because you were jealous of your sister and your parents ignored you.

“I love you. I think you’re enough.”

Petunia’s lip trembled - and she sobbed bitterly into Vernon’s shoulder for several minutes. 

Then she straightened, wiping her eyes. “Look at me,” she laughed.

“I know. You’re beautiful,” said Vernon simply and matter of factly. 

Petunia threw her arms around him. They hugged.

“We’ll have to contact those people - about the girl,” said Petunia. “About - Iolanthe, I guess I should call her.

“And we should phone Marge, too. She must have had quite a scare.”

“Oh, not as much as you’d think.” Vernon smiled cheerfully. “You know Marge. She’s probably still coming with one of her bulldogs.”

“Lovely,” said Petunia, deadpan, and they both laughed.


	2. Scars, Letters, and Blood Wards

Petunia was still upset the next morning as she went about her morning routine in the kitchen, but she was trying to pull herself together. Lily gone… her perceptions challenged… everything frayed…

Speaking of which.

She always fed Dudley in his high chair in the mornings as Vernon got ready upstairs. Usually it was because he was off to work, but today he had taken a rare sick day off from his job as firm director at Grunnings Co. Still, he was upstairs and she was downstairs looking after Dudley. In such a trying time, routine was important.

Dudley was throwing things off of his high chair at the walls as per usual. And that couldn’t be allowed to continue, she knew rationally.

So no matter how much it hurt, she took all the things off of Dudley’s high chair and put them on the kitchen table. Dudley wailed and flailed his fists louder. “No,” she said sternly into his face, pointing, some of her trademark icy, dignified steel returning. “You get those when you stop throwing them about.”

As if sensing the change in tone, chubby, pink-faced blond baby Dudley stopped and blinked big blue eyes at her. He seemed more surprised than hurt and heartbroken. Perhaps this discipline thing wouldn’t be so bad.

She tentatively gave him one of his toys back - he threw it again. Testing his limits. Petunia sighed and placed the toy once more on the kitchen table. Dudley paused, the gears behind those baby blues thinking - then he reached his hands out and made a little noise. She gave him the toy back, and he didn’t throw it.

She smiled. “Very good,” she said, pleased, and she went back to preparing the kitchen with a little spring in her step.

Still, she thought, troubled, slowing a little. Lily gone. And Iolanthe… how would they contact those people and ask for Iolanthe? Did they even have a chance? Did she just stand in the back garden of her neat city suburban house, stare up at the sky, and wish for an owl?

She sighed, took up the milk bottles - it was always milk bottles, morning newspaper, then mail arriving later through the slot in the front door - brought the bottles out onto the front step, opened the door - and screeched. 

The swaddled baby lying on the doorstep began wailing.

“... Vernon!” Petunia called in something like panic. “I… I think our problem is solved!”

-

Sure enough, it was Iolanthe Potter. She came with a letter, but Petunia and Vernon decided to wait until Marge arrived to open it - just in the interests of full togetherness and the entire forces being marshalled.

Vernon went in the car to pick up Marge and her latest horrid dog from the train station while Petunia stayed at home with Iolanthe and Dudley. Dudley kept poking Iolanthe, prodding her, and she began fussing.

“Duddy,” said Petunia sternly, putting his hand away, _“stop it.”_

She had to do several iterations of this before Dudley learned it was not acceptable to prod and push his cousin.

Petunia examined little Iolanthe. She was now sitting upright in her swaddled blanket and her little baby suit on top of the kitchen table, staring around herself with bright curiosity. She was smaller than Dudley, paler - was that worrisome? - with a chin-length head of dark red hair and hazel eyes. She was, Petunia knew, Dudley’s age - one year old.

There was a scar shaped like a lightning bolt on her forehead.

Marge suddenly burst in with her bulldog in her arms, Vernon right behind her. She let the dog go and it immediately began drooling all over the floor. Petunia’s nose wrinkled.

“Oh, thank goodness I’m here,” said Marge, concerned, bustling over. “Hello, Duddy,” she cooed in her gruff, low voice, pinching Dudley’s cheek. “And this is the girl?” She bent down to her level. “She’s a pretty little thing,” Marge said, in the same decisive, warm way she said everything.

Marge Dursley was a single woman who bred bulldogs out in the country. Her best friend was indeed an old, retired Colonel. Gruff, low-voiced, warm, and larger than life with a voice that got louder when lubricated cheerfully with alcohol, Marge was larger than life physically as well. She didn’t take much care for feminine appearances, having some upper lip hair but voluntarily choosing not to do anything about it. She believed in everyone having “a spine.”

Petunia herself was thin and blonde and feminine, her golden hair in a chiffon and her modest dresses pristine. She liked spicing up her look with little pieces of jewelry. Dignified, sometimes frigid, and obsessed with cleanliness, she loved gardening, a classically decorated home, making magnificent feasts, and sophistication - French styles, classical music, and the ballet. She was proud and she smirked more often than she smiled. She’d met Vernon during her previous job as a typist, back before she’d married him and become a housewife.

Vernon Dursley was large and broad-shouldered with an increasingly extended belly that strained the buttons of his button-up shirts slightly. He always wore nice coats, ties, and slacks. He had a receding black hairline and a thick, cheerful mustache. An opinionated corporate man who liked to keep up with the news, he knew a great deal about banking and went often to city council meetings. He was proud of the nice suburban house with the nice garden that he could provide for his family, and cared a great deal about status symbols and appearances. The Dursleys often hosted dinner parties for his best clients.

“I was briefed on the way over.” Marge planked herself down in a seat. “There’s no point in saying anything, because between yesterday, last night, and this morning it’s all already been said. No use crying over spilt milk,” she said reasonably.

Petunia felt something inside her uncoil in relief.

“So,” said Marge. “Let’s read the letter.”

“Yes, let’s,” said Vernon quickly, coming over to sit with the two women. So they slit the envelope open, and read the letter from Albus Dumbledore - leader of the Light side, member of several political councils, and Hogwarts School training headmaster. It was he who had placed Iolanthe with them.

“Well, much of it we already knew.” Marge sat back at the end, frowning. “The story behind that scar on her forehead is awful. Poor thing.”

“Agreed,” said Petunia grimly, as Vernon nodded.

“But this blood magic nonsense,” Marge continued slowly, thoughtfully. “What’s it all about?”

“It seems,” said Petunia, troubled, “that when Lily sacrificed herself for her daughter, she protected her from all touch of this Dark wizard’s. So as long as Iolanthe lives with Lily’s blood, she is protected forever from harm.”

“That’s why she was placed with us,” said Vernon meaningfully. “Because we’re the only ones who can protect her - even though we’re Muggles. As long as she lives with us, she’s safe. And it seems when she goes to this… this training place… she’ll be safe there, too.”

“So until she’s an adult witch, she’ll be safe all the time,” Marge realized. “Well,” she boomed, “now we have to take her!”

“I actually agree,” Petunia admitted. “Even had we not already considered the adoption, we can’t really ignore that call. Not after what Lily did,” she added quietly. She looked over at Dudley and imagined shielding him from a deadly attack meant for him.

She hoped in Lily’s place she’d have done the same.

“Besides,” Vernon added, “it’s either us or she grows up as a child celebrity.” He made a face. “If their world is like ours… we all know how _they_ usually turn out.”

The Dursley adults shuddered as one.

“What I want to know is whether she’ll do any magic before she gets to that Hogwash place,” said Marge curiously, sitting back. “I mean… she can manipulate matter. Can she…?”

Marge and Vernon turned hesitantly to Petunia.

“From what I remember,” said Petunia, troubled, “yes, they can do little things before they get to Hogwarts. On purpose if they try hard enough, but usually accidentally. They desperately want something, and sometimes it happens. Lily was good enough to do magic consciously before Hogwarts… Iolanthe might end up the same.”

“Anything dangerous?” Vernon frowned.

“It depends on the person,” said Petunia darkly, “and whether they’re raised properly. Lily usually did things like float or make flowers bloom. And of course we’ll raise Iolanthe correctly, to be a good person. So we shouldn’t have a problem.”

“It’s not the power; it’s what you do with it,” Vernon realized.

“And we’ll have to explain all this to her when she gets older,” said Marge. “I’m interested by the name. It is unusual.”

“Dumbledore explained in the letter,” said Petunia. “Iolanthe is Greek for violet - the flower. Lily and I were named after flowers, so Iolanthe is named after a violet. But it’s an unusual name, because it’s from one of her Potter ancestors. The Potters have been all magic for centuries. Iolanthe was the daughter of one of the Potters’ most powerful ancestors - a Peverell, so Dumbledore’s letter says.

“And Euphemia was the name of her grandmother - James Potter’s mother. So a flower from our side, and two witches from his.”

“Well, if they have their own naming, it makes sense,” said Marge reasonably. “They’re a different culture. Hopefully the girl will be able to catch up with it again later.” Then she frowned. “In a way, it’s a good thing we’re raising her, though. What kind of self respecting person leaves a baby on a doorstep all night in November?”

“I was wondering that myself,” said Petunia wryly. “I think Dumbledore was worried I might not have taken her if given a choice - and before yesterday, I might not have.”

“Neither I,” Vernon admitted, troubled, looking down at little Iolanthe Potter.

“So we’re definitely caring for her,” Marge confirmed firmly.

“Yes,” said Vernon readily.

“... Yes,” Petunia agreed, putting aside the oldest grudge she had, at least in one way. “And we’re doing it the right way - the caring, loving way. You never know. That might even make these blood magic ward things stronger. Lily’s sacrifice… was made from love as well as blood,” she finished quietly.

“She can have the other upstairs bedroom,” said Vernon, becoming more cheerful. “Lucky thing we have four. One for Dudley, one for Iolanthe, one for Petunia and I, and a guest bedroom for Marge when she visits.”

“Exactly,” said Marge crisply. “And I’ll be coming round much more often. If what you’ve been saying about Dudley being too spoiled is true… well having an entitled nephew wouldn’t do at all! So both children need all the help with good, reasonable, steady raising they can get.”

Petunia gritted her teeth and tried to smile. Both Dursleys would now be helping her raise the two children correctly.

… Wonderful. More input.


	3. Whimsy, Magic, Family, and Childhood

Iolanthe Potter grew into herself as the years passed quickly.

According to her family, she looked most like her biological mother Lily, though she had her biological father James’s eyes. She was commonly said to be a pretty girl, with a small form, long dark-red hair, a pale heart-shaped face with high cheekbones, and hazel eyes. There was of course the lightning bolt shaped scar on her forehead.

As a little girl, she’d loved blowing bubbles and drawing with crayons and chalk. She’d started biking and taking gymnastics lessons as a very young child, along with swimming lessons - sheltered in a proper middle-class English suburb that was safer and also more boring and uniform. Later, she became a bookworm and formed a love for music. She had a love for the classics in books and came to read vast tomes of philosophical fiction well beyond her typical age level. She also liked classic rock music, forming a soft spot for the musicians everyone else called ugly, and her favorite modern music was alternative and indie rock as well as punk and post-punk. She sang and danced around to many of the favorite songs on her stereo system when she was not lying on her bed by the open upstairs window reading.

She also formed a love for drawing as she became older, mostly in dark pencils and charcoal, soft, whimsical line drawings mostly focused on portraits of people. She loved origami and colorful stained glass and crystal ornaments and decorations, and together with her drawings these created a whimsical tone all around her bedroom. There were paper lanterns hung in her bedroom corners.

In fashion, as a child she wore lots of loose, lovely summer dresses in soft and light colors. She loved glittery makeup in the way a little girl loved ridiculously gaudy feminine fashion and sometimes on special occasions her Aunt Petunia let her wear glittery lipstick or eye shadow. Usually, however, she was makeup-free. She had long, loose, straight red hair with a long, straight-cut fringe that neatly covered her scar, sometimes using straightening irons with her Aunt Petunia to achieve the effect. She often wore her hair in a ponytail, a barrette, or a bun. Her Aunt Marge called her hair “60’s fashion.”

She was a quiet, serene, even distant girl with calm smiles. She was full of wry, self-deprecating humor and could surprise people at times with enthusiasm or opinionatedness. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. She was intelligent, deadly observant, determinedly independent, but romantic at heart - she loved beautiful things and things that moved her deeply. She felt more than she appeared to in her wry surface smiles. She was also adventurous, and as a toddler often got in trouble with her family for exploring fearlessly in places she was not supposed to go. She dreamed of traveling someday, and would sometimes matter of factly spout weird and random facts she had precociously learned from her reading. She got from her Aunt Petunia a super-organized need for cleaning.

From a young age, she was strongly magical. They learned she could hiss snake language to snakes during her very first trip to the city zoo when she was seven, and this was only emphasized during trips to Aunt Marge’s country house later on in life. No one thought anything of it; it was just one of the things that budding witch Iolanthe could do. When she began copying down a journal translating snake language into English so anyone could learn, again they were mostly neutral.

She also moved quickly from accidental magic to wandless magic. Hearing of the feats of her mother before her, she became determined at least to meet Lily Potter’s accomplishments, and taught herself how to float herself and other objects and how to help plants grow and blossom. She also taught herself how to do things like open doors, or lock and unlock locks, wanting to know she could get herself into anywhere she wanted to with her curiosity.

Once more, her family never encouraged or discouraged any of this - they just accepted it as a part of who she was.

She had her outside relationships. Kindly old Mrs Figg sometimes babysat her and Dudley, and from her Iolanthe formed a love of cats, temperamental and intelligent as they were. Then of course she went to primary school in the same year as Dudley. He formed a group of rowdy guy friends and she stuck more to the girls. She and her school friends would have sleepovers, or would go out on trips for ice cream or frozen yogurt together. She could talk with them on a chair on the phone in the hall by the front door for hours.

But mostly she was closest to her family. She gained a love for dogs from Aunt Marge’s many dogs, and loved running and playing with Dudley out in the countryside at Aunt Marge’s house. But for the most part, Aunt Marge visited them. They all came together to impress at fancy, calculating dinner parties and they all celebrated birthdays and holidays together, all five of them, in a loving, warm, and close knit household. Her family were hardcore tea drinkers, and she inherited that from them. Dudley and Iolanthe were both taken everywhere: the zoo, ice skating, the aquarium, the movies, adventure parks, trampoline parks, and restaurants. They were driven countless places in Uncle Vernon’s fancy company car, and sometimes even visited him and his secretary in his office at work downtown. Iolanthe loved Surrey city, loved London, and particularly enjoyed trips into both of them.

Aunt Marge was the warm, loud, fun aunt always encouraging her to speak up, say her mind, make a mess, and have fun. She encouraged things like a love for animals and imagination. Aunt Petunia was the more strict disciplinarian, the one who taught Iolanthe skills like gardening, cooking, baking, and cleaning, the one who took her on holiday charity trips. Aunt Petunia had dignity and class, taught her etiquette and took her to the theater or the ballet and told her never to fidget. And while Aunt Petunia loved gossiping with her bridge club housewife friends, Aunt Marge’s best friend was a feisty, grumpy, exasperated old ex-military man with a bad leg.

But they both had one thing in common - both were intelligent, unbending, strong-minded women. So she got that from both of them.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had a genuinely loving, stable marriage, so she got that excellent example while growing up. Uncle Vernon always treated her like she was smart enough, explaining things to her like politics and social issues that appeared in the news, or business and economics matters from his work. From him, she learned a love of class instead of the gaudy and the tacky; she also gained much of his close observation of everything around him. He’d expected to be closer to macho, masculine Dudley but found himself over time forming a surprising weakness for his intelligent, outspoken, clever and humorous “daughter.”

Dudley was Iolanthe’s brother. He teased her and tugged at her hair, sometimes made fun of her, but they played together, he gave her good advice, he knew her secrets, and he fiercely protected her from any and all bullies at school. A grinning, reasonable, funny, down to earth boy who loved video games, sci fi, boxing, and wrestling, he believed his parents when they assured him he wasn’t inferior just because he didn't have magic.

“I know,” he’d say, mildly surprised. “I’m much bigger than Iolanthe, stronger and tougher, so I’m her protector. I’m the physical guy who beats people down when nothing else works. Like her bodyguard.” He was fit for the job, a big, broad-shouldered, muscular blond boy.

Aunt Petunia’s eyes would always go misty with pride.

And it was true, Dudley did take this role very seriously. He had an extremely short fuse when it came to anyone bothering his adopted sister, and was a big defender of family.

Iolanthe’s family told her everything they knew about her, her world, and her past, giving her that talk early on, the same talk they had promised to those first two days after her parents’ deaths. So she knew from a young age her full story, that she was a Halfblood and it mattered politically, blood protections and all, Dumbledore and all, and she knew that after primary school was over she would be a witch in training going to Hogwarts, a boarding school for magic.

Her family had promised they would buy her Hogwarts school supplies for her eleventh birthday, 31 July, up in London where Aunt Petunia remembered them. Everyone would come, just like on any other birthday, partly because they all wanted to see what her world was like.

But her Hogwarts acceptance letter had to arrive that summer first. After that, Iolanthe could rejoin her home world at last.


	4. Gold and Wands

Iolanthe’s letter came quite suddenly one day. It was her turn to go get the mail from off the doormat during breakfast on a weekend during the summertime when she was ten. She walked over to the doormat - and her eyes widened.

“It came! It came!” she shouted, clutching the letter, tearing into the room a second later.

Everyone stood up - Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and Dudley. 

“Well open it!” said Aunt Petunia impatiently.

The address was written on heavy yellowish parchment in emerald-green ink:

_Miss I. Potter_

_The Far Left Bedroom_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

There was no stamp. Turning the envelope over, Iolanthe saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms: a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H. “Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus” said tiny Latin letters around the seal.

She slit the envelope open and two pieces of parchment paper fell out. Iolanthe picked up the first one, her family looking over her shoulder.

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)_

_Dear Miss Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

“Keep that; it’s a keepsake,” said Uncle Vernon immediately, hugging Iolanthe and kissing her on the head as she grinned.

“Look at you, being all grown-up and stuff,” Dudley grinned.

Aunt Petunia was frowning. “I wonder why the owl didn’t just fly in the window…” Her eyes widened. “He thought I’d deny you acceptance to Hogwarts,” she realized, outraged.

Then before a startled Iolanthe could say anything, Aunt Petunia stormed outside. “Get back here!” she shouted indignantly at thin air.

An owl swooped back down out of the skies.

“Messenger birds. We’ll have to get one,” said Aunt Petunia mercilessly, storming back in with the owl perched on her arm as everyone else stared with their mouths open. Aunt Petunia grabbed a piece of paper, wrote:

_Dear Albus,_

_She’s going. Fuck you._

_Petunia Dursley_

And then she sent the owl off into the sunny day.

Aunt Petunia turned to her gaping family. “Now,” she said. “To business.”

When they told Aunt Marge over the phone, she was delighted, shouting cheers and probably dancing around her living room. “Read out your supplies list to me; what have you got?” she asked boisterously.

“Why is she asking me about my supplies list and not you about yours?” Iolanthe asked Dudley, confused. Dudley had just recently been accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old private boarding school, Smeltings.

“Because I need _pencils,_ Iolanthe,” said Dudley in something like disbelief. “Go on, read it out to us.”

“Well, my uniform is traditional robes - plain black robes, a black cloak with silver fastenings, a plain pointed black hat, and dragonhide gloves,” Iolanthe began, looking over the supplies list. “I also need a series of textbooks about different aspects of magic, including potions, magical plants, magical creatures, and magical history. I need a potions set and a supply of basic potions ingredients, glass or crystal vials also for potions, quills and ink and parchment, a wand, a cauldron, a set of scales, a telescope, and I may also bring one of three pets - owl, cat, or toad. I’m not allowed a flying broomstick as I’m a first year,” she finished. “Oh, and my uniform robes need nametags.”

“We can do all that. As for the pet, we’ll buy a house owl and you can buy a cat. That’s how Mum and Dad did it,” said Aunt Petunia, hassled, nodding to herself. “One of Lily’s friends warned her not to buy a toad. They were out of fashion at least when your mother was a girl.”

“So what does this mean we do, Petunia?” said Aunt Marge expectantly from over the phone.

“It means we meet at Charing Cross Road in London on the morning of Iolanthe’s birthday,” said Aunt Petunia, determined. “The entrance to their biggest shopping centre is located there.”

-

Everyone met on Charing Cross Road, which looked - totally normal.

“I don’t see it,” said Dudley loudly after looking around.

“Of course not, none of us do!” Aunt Petunia scolded. “Lily’s friend who came with us said they use a bunch of Charms to hide all the little holes into their world. There are places like that all over the country. We just don’t see them.

“But _she_ can!” Aunt Petunia pointed dramatically at Iolanthe.

“I… don’t see anything?” said Iolanthe, wincing.

“Neither did Lily at first. Keep looking. There should be a pub calling itself The Leaky Cauldron…” They crept along the street, looking this way and that - even the Muggles, irrationally, as if they couldn’t help themselves.

Then, suddenly, Iolanthe spotted it out of the corner of her eye and pointed. “There!” she whispered.

The Dursleys looked - and patently didn’t see anything between the bookshop and the record store. The grubby little pub with the sign saying The Leaky Cauldron didn’t exist for them.

Iolanthe tugged them by the hand in a great human chain across the street, she leading the way. They must have looked quite silly, but the joke was on anyone laughing at them. She pulled her family into the Leaky Cauldron - and they stopped and gasped in shock.

It was a dingy little place, a bit shabby with smoke hanging over the crowds and coating the wallpaper. The wood bar was at least shiny. Complete with tables and an upstairs inn area, it looked just like a turn of the century pub. People in a weird combination of modern clothing and Victorian era garments sat around, drinking and smoking pipes. There was a low buzz of chatter in the room. The bartender had a leathery brown face and almost no teeth. Iolanthe heard someone call him “Tom.”

No one looked around when they walked in. Aunt Petunia immediately pulled them toward the back door out of the pub - and a giant of a man with a shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard in a leather coat stepped between them and stopped them, beaming.

“The Potter girl, I take it?” he asked in a boisterous, friendly way, smelling a bit of alcohol with a thick, slanging West Country accent.

“Keep your voice down. We don’t want a scene,” Aunt Petunia hissed, looking around.

“Oh. Sorry,” said the man immediately, ducking his head and falling quieter. “But - look, my name’s Rubeus Hagrid, I’m groundskeeper at Hogwarts, and I’m here for Dumbledore.”

“Will that man leave me -!” Aunt Petunia began heatedly, her face flushing.

“You should hear him out,” said a pale, nervous man with dark hair still at the bar. He put out his hand and smiled trembling. “P-Professor Q-Quirrell, D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts, Miss Potter. H-Hagrid and I stumbled into each other q-quite accidentally.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” said Iolanthe, smiling with a genuine effort and shaking his hand.

“Alright. Let’s do it out here,” said Aunt Petunia irritably. They left Quirrell behind and followed Hagrid from the pub. They found themselves in a small, walled red-brick courtyard where there was nothing but a rubbish bin and a few weeds.

“Now,” said Hagrid, “first, you need something like a wand to get in here. That’s the first way I can help. Dumbledore gave me special permission to do magic on this day for you, even though I was expelled years ago.”

“Well that fills me with confidence,” Uncle Vernon muttered as Aunt Marge snorted.

Hagrid seemed not to hear them. “Second, you’ll be needing this.” He took out a small golden key and handed it over to Iolanthe. “That will get you into your vault.”

“... My vault?” said Iolanthe uncertainly.

“At Gringotts Bank, of course!” said Hagrid. “Now, Dumbledore wanted to make sure your relatives could be trusted first, but the Potters were actually quite rich. One of your ancestors was a potions genius - invented a limb regrowing potion and the cure for the common cold. You still own the rights. So you have a trust fund for now, and then the Potter main vault when you come of age at seventeen.”

“... Rich?” said Uncle Vernon uncertainly. “We were never compensated and her family… is rich?”

“Had to know you could be trusted with the gold,” said Hagrid stoutly.

“... Gold.”

“Yes, exactly! Now, I’m going that way myself, so we can all go together and then head our separate ways. But I would like to get to know you at Hogwarts, Miss Iolanthe, if you ever felt so inclined,” he added with quite a kind smile from behind his wild beard.

“I would like that, Hagrid.” Iolanthe smiled shyly. “It would be nice to know one person on my first day. What are you going for?”

“Emptying a high security vault for Dumbledore. Hogwarts business. Not allowed to tell you about it,” said Hagrid importantly. “Now - stand back.”

He counted bricks in the wall above the trash can with a battered pink umbrella. “Three up, two across from the top center of the bin’s lid,” he called over his shoulder. He tapped that brick three times with the point of his umbrella.

The whole wall shook, bricks moved aside, and soon they were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a cobblestone street full of colorful little shops that twisted and turned out of sight. “Welcome,” said Hagrid, grinning, “to Diagon Alley.”

He seemed amused by their amazement. They stepped slowly through the archway and behind them it shrunk instantly back into solid wall.

They walked along the street, drinking the Alley in. Iolanthe wanted to know everything, see everything. They walked up the white marble Gringotts steps to the magnificent bank building - “That’s a goblin. Clever, vicious creatures, so keep a safe, respectful distance,” Hagrid muttered as they approached the first of many goblins running the bank - and then through the doors, through the second set of doors with the warning, and into the marble Gringotts hall with its long counter and its Grecian columns.

“This is where we split up,” said Hagrid cheerfully, beaming. “Good luck, Miss Iolanthe!”

“Thank you, Mr Hagrid. And - do thank Professor Dumbledore for me,” said Aunt Petunia, sounding distinctly embarrassed.

“Oh, don’t you worry about it, Mrs Dursley. He found the note funny. Said it was the best letter he’d gotten in years,” said Hagrid, grinning, and he walked off.

Aunt Marge snickered at Aunt Petunia’s expression.

They all approached the counter, and Iolanthe lifted her key up to a free goblin. Uncle Vernon cleared his throat. “Miss Iolanthe Potter would like to make a withdrawal from her trust fund,” he said, obviously trying to sound deep and official.

The goblin examined the key and then handed it back down the counter to Iolanthe. “Yes, that is authentic. Griphook!” And another goblin appeared beside them.

“What’s going on?” said Uncle Vernon, confused.

“This is not a Muggle bank, Mr Dursley,” said the desk goblin, sneering slightly. “We take you down to your vault to prove all the money is there. Oh, and Mr Dursley? We can transfer coins into Muggle money.” He gave a spine chilling laugh as they walked off with Griphook. The Dursleys shuddered.

“Uncle Vernon, I can -” Iolanthe began as they left.

“No, that’s your trust fund, from your parents,” said Uncle Vernon, with obvious, great effort. “It’s nice to know the money is there if we ever need it, but -”

He looked over at the other Dursleys.

“The money is yours, dear,” said Aunt Marge.

Iolanthe smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “Guess I was right to trust you after all.”

They smiled back.

“Now come on. Let’s go see how rich you are,” said Dudley, marching ahead of them. They entered through a door and found themselves in a narrow stone pathway sloping downward. A mining cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them.

“Are goblins miners?” Iolanthe asked.

“Miners, and jewel and metal workers,” said Griphook. “Now all aboard.”

They climbed into the mining cart with difficulty, and were whisked off. Aunt Marge was laughing, as was Dudley, while Aunt Petunia was screaming and Uncle Vernon looked nauseous. They were hurtled downward in a series of twisting, turning tunnels, impossible to memorize, lit by flaming torches. The cart must have known its own way, because Griphook wasn’t steering. They passed bursts of fire set in underground doorways, then an underground lake full of stalactites and stalagmites, before finally coming to a stop at vault door 687.

They all climbed out, Uncle Vernon blowing hard and leaning against the wall.

“All vaults have built-in protections,” Griphook now said. “Yours is poisonous gas - only harmless to those who belong in the vault.”

He took Iolanthe’s golden key, unlocked the door, a lot of green smoke came billowing out… and everyone gathered gasped. Griphook smirked grimly.

Endless piles of gold, silver, and bronze coins filled the vault to the ceiling, all the way to a back impossible to see through the mounds of money.

“It refills every time you start to run low,” said Griphook to Iolanthe. “And as your estate is always making more money - well, you get the idea. Congratulations, Miss Potter. Not only are you famous, you’re fabulously rich.”

Griphook explained the exchange rate as Iolanthe piled some of it into a drawstring bag. The gold coins were Galleons, the silver coins Sickles, the bronze coins Knuts.

Then they got back in the mining cart and hurtled back up the tracks toward Gringotts proper.

-

Blinking hard in the sunlight outside Gringotts, they eventually decided to get Iolanthe’s robes first. They entered Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, and Madam Malkin led Iolanthe to the back of the shop, standing her on a stool and fitting her black Hogwarts robes to the right length.

A boy with a pale, pointed face and white-blond hair was standing next to her. He looked over at her relatives in Muggle clothes and sneered slightly. “Are they with you?” he asked.

“I’m a Halfblood,” said Iolanthe grimly without preamble, staring straight ahead of herself. “And since you obviously care about that, I doubt we’ll ever be friends.”

“Thank you for saving me that painful fall,” the boy mocked, and also faced forward again.

The rest of the fitting was done in uncomfortable silence.

Iolanthe left the robe shop with her robes and admitted why she looked slightly upset. “What if they’re all like that?” she asked. “What if I don’t fit in there?”

“Oh, dear,” said Aunt Petunia worriedly, as Uncle Vernon held Dudley back from physically going back to the robe shop and punching the pale boy in the face.

“No, Dudley, we’re not doing that,” said Uncle Vernon.

“That’s right. No matter how much we want to. With our luck, his Dad will be someone important,” said Aunt Marge.

Iolanthe couldn’t stay depressed for long with her family by her side. She and Uncle Vernon both subscribed to the wizarding newspaper The Daily Prophet. Iolanthe got wizarding records, wizarding fiction, and a radio hooked up to the WWN (Wizarding Wireless Network) which got music and skits as well as the commentary during matches for a game on broomsticks called Quidditch. 

She also got all her school supplies, everything included on the list, and a book on Hogwarts itself as well as a few books on wizarding spells and potions and the wizarding world in general. Everything was high-end: brass, copper, crystal, and high-end dragonhide all the way. A full potions kit with its own knife. And of course top quality original robes.

Finally, all that was left were wand and pets.

“We’ll get the pets first -” Aunt Petunia began.

“Then the wand,” said Iolanthe, beaming. This was the part she’d really been looking forward to.

They went to Eeylops Owl Emporium first to pick out their new house owl. It was a female snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. Then they stopped by the Magical Menagerie, where Iolanthe bought a female Siamese cat watching her with tail flicking from the upper shelves.

The owl was for her home, for family use during her school times and for her use while on holidays, while she was taking the cat to school.

And then came Ollivanders.

They entered the shop and got the ten minute speech from Ollivander, about her parents’ wands and Voldemort’s wand and -

Finally, Aunt Petunia said, “Sir, are you actually going to help us pick something out?”

Ollivander gave her a slight, huffy glare as though she were being rather rude. “Alright,” he said, and they began. He gave Iolanthe wand after wand, but none of them were working for her. Just as she was beginning to get overwhelmed, thinking she really didn’t belong at Hogwarts -

Ollivander paused and took out a very old, dusty wand box from the back of the shop. 

“Ebony and phoenix feather, ten inches,” he said, “nice and supple.” It was a beautiful, striking black wand.

Iolanthe took it and felt a sudden warmth in her fingers. She raised it above her head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air, and sparks flew from the end throwing dancing spots of light on the walls.

Her family cheered and clapped, and only when asked did Ollivander tell her the final piece of news for the day: her wand core was the twin of the wand of Lord Voldemort.

"But - I'm nothing like him," said Iolanthe uncertainly.

"That's right, sir, she isn't!" Uncle Vernon began indignantly. "How do you even remember -?!"

"Mind magic, Mr Dursley," said Ollivander coldly, finally through with backtalk. "And wands choose witches for many reasons, Miss Potter. You don't have to be like him to have his wand pairing."


End file.
